Saturday, 3 January 2009


Turning for home, towards a raging sinking pink disc of fire, it felt like I walked into a woodcut still in the making. Water made crystal, cracked beneath every step. I was carving a trail of steps as a brayer was drawn over the hillside to pick out a wayward temporary signature line. 

The hug of that hilltop copse that has always drawn my eye, hunched against it's own shadow as the air ran in, quick to bite against the chisel of frost. On one side, neat branches, incised, exact, leaned in.  On the other, evening was dragging it's rag over the edges, blending the last colours into grey pale.